palm tree at his back, not one struck a vulnerable part, and at last
F---, casting his revolver behind him for me to pick up and reload,
closed with his foe, armed only with the shear-spear. Pincher
considered this too dangerous, and rushed in between them to
distract the boar's attention. Just as F--- aimed a thrust at his
chest,--for it was of no use trying to penetrate his hide,--the boar
lowered his head, caught poor faithful Pincher's exposed flank, and
tore it open with his razor-like tusk; but in the meantime the spear
had gone well home into his brawny chest, exactly beneath the left
shoulder, and his life-blood came gushing out. I was so infuriated
at the sight of Pincher's frightful wound that I felt none of my
usual pity for the victim; and rushing up to F--- with the revolver,
of which only a couple of chambers were loaded, thrust it into his
hand with an entreaty to "kill him quickly." This F--- was quite
willing to do for his own sake, as a wounded boar is about the most
dangerous beast on earth; and although the poor brute kept snapping
at the broken flax-stick sticking in his heart, he fired a steady
shot which brought the pig on his knees, only to roll over dead the
next moment.

I cannot help pausing to say that I sewed up Pincher's wound then
and there, with some of the contents of my Cambusmore house-wife;
which always accompanied me on my sporting expeditions, and we
carried him between us down to where the horses were fastened.
There I mounted; and F--- lifting the faithful creature on my lap,
we rode slowly home, dipping our handkerchiefs in cold water at
every creek we crossed, and laying them on his poor flank. He was
as patient and brave as possible, and bore his sufferings and
weakness for days afterwards in a way which was a lesson to one, so
grateful and gentle was he. His brave and sensible behaviour met